


aubade.

by fuckawah



Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types, Dangan Ronpa: Another Episode
Genre: F/F, I'M IN HELL, i already have i guess, i will die for this ship, toukomaru week warmup don't even @ me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-25
Updated: 2018-04-25
Packaged: 2019-04-27 17:40:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14430762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fuckawah/pseuds/fuckawah
Summary: I want to give her words that don't exist yet; I want her to be my language. She is perfect adynation.





	aubade.

Your voice was beautiful. It stands out to me even now: the slope of its shoulders and the incline of its chin. Every word you spoke was sonorous to my strident — plangent to my powerless. It commanded form and presence: a figure in the mist.  ( _ My memories are now only mist. _ )  You spoke to me. I caught each and every word and clasped it to my heart, and felt it sink between the boughs of my sternum to reside there. You eased the aching; you quelled the storm. You chased storms and I tumbled headlong into them so that you might chase  _ me _ . 

 

You were  _ Her  _ first, because you were  _ my  _ first: the first of my few very true and resounding loves. I gave you pieces of myself, dropping them to the pavement in the hopes that you might pick them up, knowing instinctively how they fit together. I was  _ so sure  _ that you were idling over the intricacies of those knots and edges, considering the best possible way to piece me together. So I told you, in no uncertain words ... and you plastered those words where everyone could see them. You were Her first. You were the first score on my thigh.

 

I remember each and every one of them: not always their names, but their faces. They are so clear in my mind: hardline smiles, and blessed eyes, and cheekbones that tore into me with indurated sharpness. I feel them under my skin...  _ carved  _ into it, like initials into the bark of a grand old tree. A legacy that permeates its felling and transmogrification into commonplace things.  _ Faces  _ who belonged to  _ men  _ who had  _ names _ ... and are now dust underneath the earth. Blood underneath my fingernails. And I will never be clean of them.

 

_ Yumejima Yuto _ . I remember your name.  (  _ I remember your number.  _ )  I remember your smile... how the sun would catch in it through the window like honey. How you offered that smile to me every day for two whole weeks... how could I forget? You gave me such beautiful words. The curvature of your lip was thoughtful, as if whispering some archaic knowledge through a hole in time. I would admire you. I would still my world for the time to dip my fingers into yours. I would go to the same teahouse every day to know that you existed.

 

Fate sat us on opposing sides of the train carriage on that evening in November. Fate drew your eyes from over the lip of your newspaper, and they fell into mine. You asked me where I got off; I told you, and you glistened. And when it was time for us to part, you rose in time with me. You followed me, and it felt as if you were following me into a dream. But I was too awake to forget your hands as they drilled into my shoulders in that dreary, empty underpass, or the brush of my coat's fur collar under my nose as I  _ implored  _ for escape.

 

I found out two things about you the next evening, Yumejima. That you were Her twenty-first, and you were married.

 

My hands are no longer mine. They belong to all of  _ them _ : thirty-seven pairs of hands,  _ clawing  _ at me — emerging from the earth and dragging me into its beckoning bastille. Their hands. My hair. Screaming. Neck. Hands.  _ Please _ . Blood. Rot. Ground.  _ Fever _ — and I am not myself. They are under my tongue, behind my lips; and waiting, patiently, in two straight lines beneath my dress. I must have smashed a hundred mirrors, and cried a thousand shards of glass for them. Did they understand that when She bled the color from their eyes?

 

I dress in the dark, for the scars whisper to me from the shadows. I take cold showers, for my skin is scorched irreparably by guilt. I feel my spine  _ click  _ after hours of hunching over a desk, and the shriek of metal over my skin... why does nothing touch me without the intent to destroy? Why am I the fading flowers of last spring, waiting to be shredded beneath a careless step? I flinch  _ away  _ and  _ away  _ and into corners, only to be cut by their sharp edges. I must not be flesh and blood, for I would have bled my last some many blows ago.

 

But then ... she touches me, and  _ my god, _ I feel like I'm going to  _ break _ . Her fingers swim through my hair — down my neck — over my scalp — and I  _ swear  _ the screaming stops, if only for those few breathless seconds in which I wait for her to behead me. She never does; I hold that breath. That same garland of air sits low in my throat every time I look at her, waiting for her to draw it out so that she may know its many secrets. I want to give her words that don't exist yet; I want her to be my language. She is perfect adynation.

 

She doesn't hate my body like I do. She doesn't look at me with reproach ... merely with eyes that nurture hidden gold. Every part of her is so perilously  _ soft  _ that I feel as though I might turn her to stone; instead, she turns me to velvet. In her arms, I am the moon:  _ wandering companionless _ , until she beckons me back to earth with the encumbrance of her aubade. She touches my scars as if they won't dissolve her with the iniquity that has eaten me to the bone. She is good, and impervious, and recklessly idiotic for daring to love me.

 

I can never love her completely, because I'm not complete. I can only offer her what has not been torn from my flesh to be crucified. There is so little of me remaining that it scares me, wholly ... but I love her wholly. With every broken piece that still undulates in the hands of dead men. She's slow, and so unaware of this: happy to move with the seasons. Through my dark days and into those that are lighter. I make love to every word she has ever spoken; transcribe it to my own tongue; paraphrase the love that I'm relearning.

 

**Author's Note:**

> __
> 
> Art thou pale for weariness  
> Of climbing heaven and gazing on the earth,  
> Wandering companionless  
> Among the stars that have a different birth, —  
> And ever changing, like a joyless eye  
> That finds no object worth its constancy?  
>  _To the Moon_   /  **Percy Byshe Shelley**.
> 
> * * *
> 
> i’ve never written first person perspective _or_  shipping fic in my entire life, but here we are. burning. 
> 
> written as character study & shared between friends, but here’s my op to make other friends in this fresh hell.
> 
> anyway, hit me up here / on twitter if i can write you something specific that you’d like to see regarding these two. i like keeping busy in between brainstorming toukomaru week prompts, because those will each total about 10,000 words. 


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